Driver gently lifted her sweater over her head and tossed it to the floor, his eyes flickering with desire at the sight of her bra, which he deftly unsnapped.

“Oh, shit,” Mary Jane couldn’t help but mumble as his head lowered. When his mouth closed over her nipple, her knees buckled. He caught her and lowered her gently to the floor. He whispered into her ear as he hovered above her. “Don’t worry, Mary Jane, everything is going to be just fine.” Then he laughed, before flicking his tongue across the stiffened peak of her breast.

She bit her lip, determined not to groan. But that tongue of his made it difficult. Lazily at first, he licked a circle around the nipple, making it swell. No, no, no. She willed herself to disassociate, as she so often had before. A memory from her marriage drifted into mind—Ben kissing her breasts as she lay back and composed a grocery list in her mind.

“Damn it, Mary Jane,” Ben had finally complained as he sat back, sweaty and agitated. “I can tell you’re not into this. Couldn’t you at least try for once?” Then he’d stalked out of the room, leaving her naked on the sheets, her stomach clenched against the onslaught of anything that could be mistaken for pleasure.

“Mary Jane?” Driver murmured as his teeth grazed her nipple, and the tiny jolt of pain jerked her back to the present. “Naughty, naughty,” he scolded, his finger reaching up to pinch the nipple lightly, shooting an illicit thrill straight to her sex, which to her horror, was beginning to get wet.

“You aren’t supposed to be thinking about the past just yet,” he whispered. “I’m not one of the spirits, honey, I’m just the warm-up, and you’re gonna have to work harder than this.”

“Work? I thought this was supposed to be fun.” Mary Jane could barely get the words out, so focused was she on sending a desperate plea from her brain to her body. Don’t get turned on by this.

“Oh, it’s gonna be fun, all right. But I’ve got to warn you,” he plucked at her nipple again, staring at it as if deciding exactly where to bite. “These spirits are going to have their way with you, whether you let yourself enjoy it or not. So you’d be better off letting go right now. Let me give you a taste of what you’re in for, while you still have it easy.”

“This isn’t easy,” she replied, grabbing the edge of the floor rug to keep from grinding her hips, which seemed to have developed a mind of their own. Thanks a lot, sex drive.

“No?” Driver continued his torment of her nipple, rolling it between his teeth until the flesh was raw. “Trust me, this is the easy part. I won’t ask you questions, make you beg, or lure you into doing all of those wicked things you think you’d never do.”

Make me beg? Mary Jane didn’t like the sound of that at all. Except why did Driver’s words make her skin prickle? Her groin ached and she stared up into his impossibly green eyes, the color of a sun-dappled creek.

“I hope that didn’t scare you, Mary Jane,” Driver whispered into her ear. “You won’t be forced to do anything you don’t want to do, understand that. It’s just that these spirits are awfully persuasive.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mary Jane’s breasts had been licked and teased to the point where, despite her best intentions, she couldn’t take much more. Though she’d never have admitted it, what she really wanted at this moment was for him to use those clever fingers and lips somewhere a bit further south.

“Yeah,” he stared into her face. “They have ways of convincing you, making you turn yourself inside out just for the thrill of it. So,” his eyes dropped to her mouth, her breasts, “if I were you, I’d just go ahead and let me fuck you silly. Because it’s the least of what will happen to you today.”

So, my friend Rex the human tripod and I cooked up this story over IM last December. It vanished from the archives, only to resurface today as we were busy concocting another erotic blockbuster/crazed mashup fiction tribute to dinosaurs, developed again by Rex, whose creative skills are wasted in the advertising industry. Without further ado, I present Drug Test Divas — story written by Rex the Human Tripod and Lush Jones.

Lush Jones… So I walk into this office – there’s one dour little man sitting behind a desk. I hand over my paperwork, smile and say “I’m here for a drug test.” He glares at me and sighs. 10:23:39 AM

◄ He motions for me to come behind the door and calls out for me to have a seat. I can’t see him, so I’m all “Um, okay, where?” And he snaps at me, and I see him point to a chair in front of his desk with an extremely irritated look on his face like I am the 100th stupid drug test woman he’s had to deal with today. 10:24:47 AM

◄ He looks over my paperwork and meticulously begins to lay out things. An envelope, a brand-new shiny pair of scissors, a pair of industrial sized tweezers. 10:25:51 AM

◄ By now I’m starting to hyperventilate because it’s so @#$% quiet in there and he’s freaking me out. 10:26:38 AM

◄ Then he walks over to me, tells me to lean back in the chair, which I do. He stands behind me for a full minute and then he begins combing my hair. Slowly, carefully combing. 10:27:55 AM

Rex/IL… Sweeney Todd. 10:28:22 AM

Lush Jones… Now I have to bite my lip because I’m about to start giggling, the entire thing is so fucked up and freaky. 10:28:28 AM

◄ But I don’t because what the hell is he going to do to me if I start laughing? 10:28:44 AM

◄ Anyway, so then he clips up the top layer of my hair, and taking his scissors right up against my scalp, he slices through a huge chunk of my hair. 10:29:28 AM

Rex/IL… did he say, “whoops.” 10:29:52 AM

Lush Jones… That would have lightened the mood – so no. He takes the hair back to his desk and smooths it out on this red cellophane tape, then he comes back FOR MORE. He proceeds to cut two more times, on each side of my head, again right up on my fucking scalp. 10:31:32 AM

◄ I’m thinking how much hair does he need? 10:31:50 AM

◄ Is he going to make a voodoo doll? 10:32:02 AM

Rex/IL… Please tell me you now look like Britney Spears. 10:32:18 AM

Lush Jones… Lucky for me, I have a lot of hair, so no. Also, I lack a certain crazy blonde Mousketeer vibe, so I doubt I could pull that look off. 10:33:51 AM

◄ But when he’s all done playing with my hair, he seals it up, makes me sign several things and then, looking slightly happier, tells me I’m done. 10:34:49 AM

◄ Here’s the thing – A. If you have long hair and someone cuts it off at the scalp, it hurts. I can still feel where he cut it. It’s GROSS. 10:35:25 AM

◄ And B. What the hell was he planning on doing with the tweezers? 10:35:40 AM

Rex/IL… As a guy who shaves his head, I can sympathize with the feeling of cutting it off at the scalp. Especially this time of year. Zero humidity makes the scalp extra dry and irritable. I go over it with one of them fancy gillete multi-bladed gizmos and “for extra-sensitive skin” shaving cream and it doesn’t help, 10:38:00 AM

Lush Jones… Ouch, that does sound painful 10:39:30 AM

Rex/IL… Now, here is an extreme theory: 10:39:41 AM

Lush Jones… Waiting with baited breath… 10:41:29 AM

Rex/IL… Maybe, he puts out the extra tools and weirdo vibe for no other reason than his own entertainment. He has an incredibly boring repetitive job and one where is “customers” are both annoyed and creeped out by having to come there in the first place. 10:42:11 AM

◄ For all you know, you two could be simpatico, but due to the nature of your interaction, you’ll never know. 10:43:01 AM

Lush Jones… It’s entirely possible. 10:43:11 AM

Rex/IL… I see a premise for another sex novel in the making. 10:43:22 AM

◄ You could write it as one of those shifting perspective books – from each of their angles. We see how creeped out she gets. We read that he does it on purpose. 10:44:38 AM

Lush Jones… I like it 10:44:49 AM

Rex/IL… He sees her secret tattoo and knows what it means. It’s some sort of underground / alt lifestyle code. 10:45:02 AM

◄ He “mishandles” her sample and she has to come back in. He acts differently and makes a comment about the tattoo. her perspective changes. Sparks fly. Fluids exchanged. The end. 10:45:54 AM

Lush Jones… Rex, I see a trilogy in the making – Fifty Shades of Drug Tests 10:46:03 AM

Rex/IL… Just “Fifty Drug Tests” They alternate him mishandling the tests for her to come in and her quitting and getting new jobs that require the test. 10:46:57 AM

Lush Jones… Are those your scissors or are you just happy to see me? 10:47:20 AM

Rex/IL… They could live in a small, conservative town where every employer requires a test so she just jumps from one crap job to another in order to get retested as her obsession about him grows. 10:47:56 AM

◄ It practically writes itself. 10:48:11 AM

◄ Finally, she exhausts employers in their radius and discovers that as she goes futher out for jobs, they send her to different centers. Now their love/lust is at a cross-roads. 10:49:16 AM

I’m just a writer, of fiction mostly – and under this particular pen name, erotic fiction. It’s not rocket science, nor is it Tolstoy. Just some entertaining and possibly offensive wordsmithing to make the days more interesting, and possibly a tad less bleak.

So why does it matter to me, all this cancelling of movie premieres and threatening of people millions of times more powerful than me by hacker-terrorists? (I want to call them ‘hackerists’ but that sounds like something you could buy at Home Depot).

Because there are a lot of things that define this country, but to me, the 1st amendment’s kind of a big one. Other countries have good schools, good medical care, and some might say, better child care options and cuisine. But the freedom to speak your mind without fear of persecution? We always owned that one. Give us your tired, your hungry, your poor … they may or may not succeed here, but one thing we can promise — we will let them speak.

But now, because somebody on the other side of the world doesn’t like what we have to say, we can’t? Who the hell are they to tell us what silly movies we can or cannot make?

Years ago, when The Last Temptation of Christ was released, certain church groups in small towns told everyone to boycott any video stores who stocked it. Fortunately for the movie studios, that didn’t seem to have any huge impact. And if you didn’t grow up in the Bible belt, you probably you never heard about it, nor did you care. But it’s the same thing; censorship.

Freedom of speech, as we all know, is not the freedom to tell blatant lies about other people or yell ‘fire’ in a crowded public place. But last time I checked, it did cover the freedom to make a movie based on a real person in the name of art or entertainment. Don’t like it? Don’t watch it. But, until now, you couldn’t dictate whether it was released in the first place.

Let me repeat: until now.

This is a big deal.

As Lush Jones, I write erotica — basically harmless stories about sex, and you could essentially boil the plot of all of them down to one basic premise: a woman reclaims her sexuality. As I said before, it ain’t War and Peace. But I bet there are plenty of people who don’t want stories of women owning their sexuality to be told. Probably, if they could, they’d love to tell me and the gazillion other erotica writers, to stop writing.

So what? I’m not feeding my kids based on the success of my writing (phew!) so it’s not like I’m ever going to really suffer.

But plenty of people do suffer. People in countries, like North Korea, who don’t have a voice. Who look to us as an example. Who think we’re the one place you can say anything. If we can be stifled, what hope do we offer them?

So you know what I’m going to do on December 27th? I’m going to exercise my patriotic rights and watch a movie that has stuff in it that offends at least somebody. I haven’t decided which film yet, but I’m taking suggestions. And I’m doing it because I can. Because I am allowed to do so. Because I may not have control over what movies are released, but I do have control over the remote (sort of). And I’m going to talk. About the movie, after the movie … hopefully not over the movie, because that would be rude.

Join the Polar Bear club. Sure, it’s not as sexy as the Mile High club, but nobody can fit into airplane bathrooms anymore. Plus, who doesn’t like polar bears?

Visit Napa. With Patsy and Edina. Possibly in conjunction with the trip to Target. Do they allow Targets in Napa? Probably not, which is too bad because, personally, I would love to do a wine tasting AND pick up a gallon of milk at the same place.

sites de rencontres 100 gratuit Where are your 5 favorite places to shop?
Hmmm. Tricky question, I don’t actually like to shop. I’m more of a shop online and pray it fits because I don’t have time to shop anywhere I can’t also buy milk (see above) kinda gal.

The Gap for jeans. Although every time I find a pair I love, they discontinue it. Rude.

Charming Charlie’s. Yes, I am an accessories whore. And the entire place is color-coordinated. Every time I walk in, I’m overwhelmed by the desire to buy a giant yellow purse. I don’t even like the color yellow. Either their merchandising is that good, or I’m a retail sheep.

Central Market. Y’all probably don’t have these, but they are kind of like a cheaper, Texas version of Whole Foods. I have a problem buying organic apples for ten bucks a pound, so Central Market is more my style. The entire store smells like good coffee and hatch chiles. Yum.

Does Amazon count? Because the other day, I ordered a new book, a temporary window shade and a twelve pack of magic gloves and got them in two days. That was pretty cool.

Vince Vaughn
Colin Firth
Colin Farrell
Any of the cute boys from the Vampire Diaries, provided, of course that they don’t try to explain the plot to me. Because I don’t really care.
Pitbull. He could write a song about the whole thing. I’d provide the rapping backup, naturally.

What are your 5 favorite songs?

Hey Now — London Grammar

Respect — Aretha Franklin

She Sells Sanctuary — The Cult

Day-O — Harry Belafonte

Do You Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans?

What are your 5 favorite foods?
Pasta
Wine (it comes from grapes, people)
Dark chocolate
Croissants
The peanut butter pie from Heaven on Seven in Chicago. It is life-changing.

If your book was made into a movie, what 5 celebrities would you want to star in it?
Either Joseph Morgan or a young Alan Rickman.
Common
Michael Pena
Ian Sommerhalder
Mary-Louise Parker

What are your top 5 pet peeves?
Mean people
Rude people
Open closet doors. Because if you leave the closet door open, the monsters that live inside can get out. Duh.
Dog hair on my tights.
Mosquitoes. I know pet peeves aren’t supposed to be an entire class of insect, but trust me on this one, they are annoying and serve no purpose. Pet peeve.

What 5 things do you most enjoy?
Reading
Writing
Cooking
Cooking while drinking wine and reading trashy OK magazines. This is like ten things all in one, because it’s harder than you might think to sautee garlic, keep up with the Kardashians and toss back Merlot.

What can I say? I’m a top ten list whore. And the sight of that ridiculous turkey staring me down every time I open the refrigerator is inspiring me. So, with apologies to 50 Shades fans everywhere, here goes…

Top Ten Ways in which Thanksgiving is like 50 Shades of Grey

1. Sure it’s kitchen twine, not handcuffs, but that bird’s gettin’ trussed. And fancy, too — there are all kinds of videos showing you elaborate ways to tie your turkey’s legs together. Sort of like Japanese porn. Only with Martha Stewart.

2. What is it about ovens? Remember the fateful elevator scene? You too can recreate this steaminess with your wall oven and the turkey. More heat, less hair pulling, I hope.

3. The book had an immaculately dressed man. Thanksgiving has .. well, maybe not so immaculate, but it is a dressed turkey. And if you can’t spin sexual innuendo out of stuffing and sausage … frankly, you’re just not trying very hard.

4. Whipping the cream. Anyone?

5. He beats her bottom raw, you beat raw eggs. Ok, that one was a stretch but I’m going for ten, people. Cut me some slack.

6. “There’s a fine line between pleasure and pain.” There’s also a fine line between “done” and “burnt.” Tinfoil, y’all. Get some.

7. Quivering, red, moist ..I’m speaking of the canned cranberry jelly OF COURSE. What did you think I meant?

8. Playroom, schmayroom. A kitchen stocked with wooden spoons and spatulas is waaay more versatile. You can spank your lover AND stir the gravy. Also, am I the only one thinking that Mr. Grey just needed to sit down, shut up and eat some mashed potatoes?

Funny things happen when you get a new job in New Orleans — what happens at the drug test stays at the drug test. Enjoy…

“Congratulations, Delilah,” the woman sang into the phone. “I’ve got good news.”

Delilah held her breath on the other line, the pit of her stomach going hot. Her sweaty hand trembled as she held the phone to her ear and suppressed the urge to nibble a cherry-red fingernail.

“We’re delighted to offer you a job,” the woman said.

“Oh,” Delilah sighed with relief. “I’m delighted to accept.” Delighted was putting it mildly. She could have danced naked in the street out of pure gratitude, if it wasn’t illegal – and maybe a tad extreme for the middle of the week. This was New Orleans, though. Raunchier things had happened on a Wednesday.

“Excellent!” The woman fairly chirped. “We’ll be so thrilled to have you join our team. Can you start in two weeks?”

“I can start tomorrow!” Desperate much, Del?

“Oh, don’t I wish that you could! But there’s one thing left to do before you can start. It’s a little thing, really.”

“Sure,” Delilah answered as she cast her eyes around the tiny brick-walled living room of her apartment. Dusty chocolate-colored fake leather couch that doubled as a bed, a fleece throw that served as bedding and a rickety old chest that played the role of coffee table and linen closet with equal aplomb. Every item in the studio space had to fill multiple needs. Double-duty Delilah, they called her at work, where she toted heavy trays of food and drinks past tables of impatient male customers who serenaded her with drunken catcalls. She could push away the greedy fingers pawing at her skimpy shorts even as she slipped the crushed dollar bills from their fingers.

But not anymore. She wasn’t going to wait tables at a seedy, if popular, nightspot anymore. Now she’d be Dependable Delilah, Going Places Delilah, Corporate Drone Delilah. Boring Delilah. She hushed that voice, confident that if she could handle dispensing body shots of tequila to brawny men twice her size, she could handle working in a quiet, bland office where the pay was regular and there was actual health insurance and, rumor had it, 401K. Delilah’s head reeled at the concept of actually having enough money to squirrel away for retirement instead of needing it for laundry.

She’d dropped out of college one semester short of a degree, to take care of her father when the nice people at the hospital had quietly explained there was nothing else to do. And when those same nice people had ignored her calls about hospice help, she never looked back. She wouldn’t regret those months she spent making soup and watching her dad pretend to sip it as he wasted away. She had the rest of her life to finish college and only one father.

But when he’d died, there’d been so many expenses and too quickly, the money she thought would be left for her to finish her degree was gone. It had always just been Delilah and her dad, her mother having disappeared so long ago no one ever spoke of her, so there was no backup plan, no shoulder to cry on. Three weeks later, she was convincing a restaurant manager that she had loads of waitressing experiencing.

It was funny, Delilah thought at the time, how much easier it was to make a choice when you didn’t really have one.

But I do now. Delilah spied an angry-looking Visa bill on the coffee table and clutched the phone tighter. “What were you saying about this thing I need to do?”

“A drug test,” the woman answered. “It’s not a big deal. They take a tiny hair sample and you’re done.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Delilah tried to match the woman’s cheerful tone. Hair test, skin test, DNA test, she could care less. It was one final step between her and the ability to pay rent.

“Good.” The woman cleared her throat. Hesitating the tiniest bit, she continued, “I should tell you, the man at the testing center … well, some people find him a little strange. But he’s harmless, I can assure you. Nothing to worry about — he’s just not the warmest fellow. But, as I said, it’s hardly anything. Just a silly little test. You’re in and you’re out and then you’re hired.”

“I’m not worried,” Delilah assured her. “Bring on the scissors!”

###

Two hours later, and she hopped off the trolley, turning down one street and up the other, until she stopped in front of a small strip of businesses. In between a lamp store and a magic shop that had seen better days, was Suite 33, Test Me — Testing Solutions for the Modern Business. Dried orange leaves scattered at her feet as she crossed the road. The scent of something she couldn’t quite place drifted beneath her nose. A candle, maybe. Spicy and warm.

She shook her head. Who’d be lighting candles around here? Probably someone in the magic shop, trying to drum up customers with drugstore voodoo and air freshener. There didn’t appear to be another soul in this sad little retail center.

Just as she reached the door, though, a small black cat darted across the sidewalk in front of her.

“Well,” she said out loud. “I’m not going to read too much into that.” After all, it was only a week from Halloween. Superstitions, unlike paychecks, were plentiful enough that she could afford to dismiss one or two. Her luck was changing today.

She was sure of it.

The glass door was heavy, and she yanked it open against a suddenly chilly wind. “Geez,” she muttered, “it’s like the damn door doesn’t want to let me in.”

Once inside, she took a quick peek around the small, beige waiting area, flanked by a quartet of sad-looking vinyl chairs. A coffee table leaned on spindly legs between the chairs, spread with old magazines that nobody would want to read. A bass-fishing title from the turn of the century appeared to be the most recent, and even that looked well-thumbed. Delilah hoped she wouldn’t have to wait long.

“Please sign in,” read the hand-lettered sign taped to the edge of a glass partition, partially obscuring it and Delilah approached. As she scribbled her name with the black marker on a blank sheet of paper, she caught a glimpse of herself. Long, brown curls fell past the shoulders of her green jersey dress. Freckles left over from summer’s tan dotted her face and the muscular legs peeping out from her short skirt. She had the kind of tall, fit body that was slim enough by her standards to wear a bikini, with breasts and a bottom round enough to make men glad she did.

Standing on tiptoe to get a better glance into the partition, she felt the thick strap of her black booties dig into her ankle. The last pair of nice shoes she owned hadn’t been made for walking the eight blocks from the trolley stop. No matter. She might be desperately seeking employment, but damned if she wouldn’t look good in the process.

“Who’s there?”

Delilah almost fell over in shock as the sharp voice pierced the silence of the waiting room. The partition slid halfway open and a man with dark hair and angry indigo eyes glared at her.

“I’m here for the drug test.” Delilah informed him, waving a sheaf of crumpled forms to indicate her mission.

He reluctantly pulled back the glass all the way and snatched the papers from her hand. Scanning them briefly he returned his glance to her, his eyes skimming her hopeful face without a trace of a smile. Stonily, he pointed to the door to the right of the partition. “Come in and take a seat.”

Delilah pushed the door open and looked from side to side. She couldn’t see him or where she was supposed to sit.

“Over here, I said.” His voice crackled with impatience and Delilah sidled over to the left, peering into a cramped office. A heavy metal desk dominated the room, clean if battered. A thick bank of green plants cascaded down the side of a bookshelf, dangling vines close enough that Delilah could practically touch them. And the smell in the room – it was that same scent she’d whiffed outside. Like a mix of patchouli, pumpkin and apple. Someone’s been overdosing on potpourri, she mused, trying to lighten the situation by focusing on some funny little detail– a tactic that typically worked well. Here, though, in the creepy silence of the office, humor was hard to find.

The drug test man sat behind the desk and pointed to a chipped wooden chair. Delilah lowered herself to the seat, trying to tug it forward so she could sit closer, but the awful scraping sound the thick wood made across the tiled floor stopped her. At least the seat was comfortable. Almost too comfortable, with a thick velvety cushion that Delilah sank into, and then instantly tried to sit up straighter out of nervousness.

As the man frowned at her paperwork, she couldn’t help but notice that really, he was handsome. If tall, dark and frosty was your type. Short black hair, with a fringe of bangs that hung just above those deep blue eyes. Broad shoulders strained beneath a very boring white shirt with far too many buttons. He was younger than his icy demeanor would suggest; maybe thirty if Delilah had been a betting woman.

If only he had a personality.

Delilah shifted in the seat and he looked up, glowering. She froze. He didn’t look the type to tolerate mistakes – his bristling attitude made that abundantly clear, and she couldn’t afford for the test to go poorly.

“So,” she smiled, hoping that a cheerful, professional tone might smooth things over. “How long does this take?”

He did not return the expression, but merely raised an eyebrow. Reviewing the forms she’d given him, his nostrils flared with distaste for the task ahead of him. Or at least that’s what Delilah imagined. She wanted to clear things up; to say, “Look, I don’t do drugs, this is just a test. For a job that I’ve already gotten and you’re just a formality, so let’s get this over with and I’ll leave you to your precious paperwork and PMS.”

But his face didn’t invite chatter and she remained silent. Finally he put the forms down on his desk and sighing, he opened a drawer. He carefully slid his hand inside, as if not wanting her to see what he was looking for.

Delilah peered forward, curious, but his eyes snapped up and he caught her staring. He slammed the drawer shut, making her jump. The edge of his mouth almost moved then, as if amused.

He’s enjoying this, Delilah realized, and she frowned right back at him and crossed her arms over her chest. His stare wavered, drifting down her neck and then back up again. Locking on her face, he raised a brow slightly.

Your move, asshole.

Carefully he placed three objects on the surface between them. A long cardboard envelope. A shiny new pair of scissors, encased in a blue plastic sleeve. A long silver comb.

“How much hair are you taking?” Delilah eyed the scissors nervously. She hadn’t known what to expect, but a long, gleaming pair of shears certainly hadn’t been on her radar. She’d pictured something more along the lines of tweezers, plucking out a strand or two, not hacking off chunks of her pride and joy.

He sneered and answered in a mocking tone, “it’s a hair test. I’ll cut a sample of your hair and send it to a lab. Any more questions?”

“No,” Delilah answered quickly. She ran her fingers self-consciously through a strand that fell over her breast, twisting a piece around her little finger as if worried he might yank it suddenly from her head.

Silently, he watched her nervous movement. If he felt a hint of compassion or empathy, he gave nothing away. Opening another drawer, he removed a pair of latex gloves. Sliding his fingers inside, he snapped the thin rubbery edge around his wrist until the gloves fit tightly over his large, knotty hands.

Once he was satisfied that the gloves fit just right, he picked up the sealed package containing the scissors. Nudging his index finger under the perforated edge, he slowly ran the tip of his latex-enclosed nail against the dotted line, back and forth until the sleeve released and puckered open with a soft whoosh of air. Holding the sleeve in one hand, he tilted it upward to let the scissors fall into his other open palm. Gingerly, he scooted the empty plastic pocket to the side while he examined the scissors. Caressing the smooth silver handles, he ran his fingers around the inside of the metal loops, as if testing to make sure they met his standard. Then he ran his thumb along the long, sharp shears, prodding the shiny tip with the slightest touch.

From another drawer, he produced a small square of chamois, which he then used to polish the scissors. And if Delilah thought they looked wickedly sharp before, they looked downright dangerous now, gleaming in the light of the room like a weapon. Lifting the scissors, he stood and approached Delilah.

“Lean back,” he commanded.

Jesus, what a nut job. She wasn’t sure she should comply. Clearly, he was crazy after being cooped up in this office for who knows how many years. No matter how hot he was and how desperate she was, she didn’t think her chances at a “real” job were going to improve from being chopped into tiny bits.

Some people find him a little strange. The woman’s voice echoed in her head, as she hesitated in the chair. Maybe that was his thing. Maybe he just pretended to be this creepy to freak people, knowing they were too scared about passing the drug test to do anything about it. Maybe after work, he clocked out and met buddies at a bar, regaling them with stories of all the people he’d ‘tested’ with his looney bin routine. Why, he was probably a perfectly normal, garden-variety jackass, and he’d be laughing it up later about her.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat and, slightly less arctic this time, repeated, “I really do need you to lean back. I can’t get the sample that I need otherwise.”

Sample, my ass. But she obliged, smoothing her skirt over her knees as she scooted backward. She certainly wasn’t going to get screwed over by some dickhead on a drug test power trip. She could feel his eyes on her, watching and waiting with impatience . . . or maybe something else. A wicked impulse prompted her to slowly twist her hips, wiggling her bottom back and forth until her shoulders were flush with the fabric-covered seatback.

He said nothing, but his flashing eyes told Delilah he was interested. She returned his stare and licked her lips, restraining herself from an over-the-top gesture; merely letting the tip of her tongue slip across the gloss-slicked surface of her mouth.

“Is this how you want me?” Her eyes never left his as she asked, and the tightening of his jaw muscles was the only answer she needed.

He moved behind her chair. A thrill shot through her as he disappeared from her view. Logically, she knew he must be getting ready to cut her hair, but a darker urge made her thighs tremble as she waited for him to make the first move. Not that she was into him, mind you. It was control she was after. The control he foolishly thought he had, which she was about to snatch right out of his scissor-wielding hands. Men, she thought, they’re all the same.

She could hear the dull rushing noise of the furnace in the silence of the room. He was right behind her chair, yet he wasn’t moving. What was he doing? Another moment ticked by and frustrated, she cracked her knuckles.

“Please don’t do that.” His voice was calm. Maybe he became a nicer person with the scissors. Maybe they were some sort of strange security blanket for him. Maybe he took them to bed. Now she had to try not to giggle, picturing him talking to a pair of scissors, stroking them on a pillow, tucking them finally beneath a soft blanket as he sucked his thumb. She really had to work now, biting her lip as the laughter threatened to spill from her throat. She fidgeted, rocking her ankle back and forth beneath the chair in nervous agitation.

Quickly, he stepped around and faced her, standing inches from her chair, his crotch practically at face level as he said in a deceptively soft voice, “Perhaps I wasn’t clear. I don’t want you to move.” Then he crouched down, reached forward and grabbed her ankle. His touch wasn’t painful, just shocking, as he rubbed his thumb slightly against her calf, the movement catching Delilah completely off kilter and forcing her to stop jiggling her leg.

He stayed there, crouched, for a full minute. “There,” he pronounced, rubbing his thumb one last time before standing. “Isn’t that better? I just need you to be still.” Before he moved away, he looked into her eyes, not smiling or frowning – just staring. And she couldn’t look away.

Then he slid behind her again, and she heard the razor- The anticipation made her nipples harden and she cast her eyes down into her lap, willing herself not to get quite so turned on. After all, she could be completely misreading the situation. He might genuinely be oblivious to her, might be intent on nothing more than the successful completion of another dull task in his daily routine.

Or he might want to rip off her panties and take her right across the desk.

It was the not knowing that drove Delilah a tiny bit crazy as she sat in the chair, waiting. Seconds, then minutes ticked by and she could hear the slightest noise of his breathing as he stood behind her. She could smell a faint scent of cologne and she was aware of her breath quickening as she tried to stay perfectly still.

Finally, the whisper of air behind her signaled he was ready to begin. She felt the comb tugging softly through her hair, and the metal teeth grazed her neck. Slowly and carefully he combed with one hand, while the other held the shank of her hair firmly between her shoulder blades. He was surprisingly gently, the teeth of the comb light as they raked through each strand. With every stroke, her skin prickled against the coolness of the metal and the firmness of his fingers. Her stomach tightened and she tried to ignore the tiny sparks of heat flaring between her legs.

Words would have relieved the tension, but of course, he didn’t speak; merely continued with this oddly gentle rhythm of metal against hair against skin that was almost hypnotic. Fighting the urge to let her head fall back into his capable hands, and hoping a nap might stave off the dangerous horniness this drug-testing nut was unleashing, Delilah closed her eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep on me.” His voice had lost some of its sharpness, and he sounded – if not amused – then unsurprised. Maybe he was used to lulling unsuspecting hair test takers to sleep. Maybe, if she wasn’t careful she’d wake up in Thailand, bald and missing a kidney. She hoped not. She was fairly sure she could make it with only one kidney, but bald?

Not with these hips.

“Sit up straight, please,” he said, his fingers cool and dry against the back of her neck. “I’m almost done, and I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

Delilah scooted up further against the seat back, pushing her breasts out as she moved. She could feel him breathing behind her, and she heard the catch in his breath when arched her back just enough to make sure he noticed her nipples beneath the thin jersey fabric of her t-shirt. She wore a bra, but a flimsy one – designed more to titillate than to cover.

One last tug of his hand, and her neck stretched backward. He held her hair, twisting it into a coil at her crown. He leaned over, pressing the hair still with his thumb while the fingers of his other hand snipped beneath. She felt a feathery dusting of hair fall across her shoulders. He didn’t move for a moment, just stood there and she could feel the heat of his skin barely an inch from her back. His hand still kept her hair in place, and she had an urge to reach up and grab that hand, slip her fingers between his and pull herself to standing.

Then he sighed and released her hair, letting it fall down around her shoulders.

Disappointed, she sighed, too. What was she thinking? That he would swing her around, throw her down on the desk and tear off her panties?

Yes. Yes, she was thinking that. And he knew it.

The faintly citrusy scent of his cologne drifted by as he stood behind Delilah. The smell, the light, teasing touch of his hands in her hair — she was growing damper by the minute as she debated her options. She could pretend the sexual tension between them was a figment of her imagination, leave with dignity and go home and replay the entire scene with a vibrator. That was option A.

Or … she could take a different approach.

She waited while he took a step away from her chair, walking around to his desk with the prize; the long, brown curls in his hand. He carefully placed them inside a plastic bag, smoothed out the bag to remove any air bubbles and then marked something on the plastic surface with a thick black Sharpie.

Then he raised his eyes to look at Delilah. Those impossibly blue eyes of his, the pupils large and black and bottomless. His face a perfectly chiseled square of white skin, light stubble and lips she wanted to nibble.

She stared back at him, and his eyes flickered. With a decisive moment, he picked up the plastic package and moved it to a shelf above the desk.

Delilah’s eyes locked on his and beneath those inky black brows she saw the pupils begin to dilate and she licked her lips. That was all it took.

In one quick movement, he lunged across the desk and reached for her, at the same time she leapt toward him. He ripped away her t-shirt and his mouth dropped at the sight of her full breasts, barely contained in their lace.

“See something you like,” she murmured and jerked his shirt from his body, popping buttons in the process. His chest, a perfect, pale sculpture of lean, flat muscles, practically begged her to rake her nails down those pecs, those abs.

He tossed her atop the desk in response, yanking at her skirt, plowing through the filmy fabric of her panties, which flew in tiny scraps across the room.

His hands roved over her breasts, those incredibly cool and clever fingers so steady when they were combing her hair, now trembling. The feeling of being wanted shot through Delilah like icy vodka and she wriggled beneath him, thrusting her swollen nipples between his fingertips. “God, that feels good,” she moaned as he rubbed his mouth across her nipples, nipping at the tender flesh until she was dizzy with desire.

“No,” he lifted his head and stared at Delilah, lids flickering over his flashing blue eyes. “No talking.”

“What?” She protested, trying to sit up but he pushed her back against the desk. Pressing one finger against her lips, he shook his head.

“I said, no talking.”

She moaned again, her sex aching and desperate for relief. “Then get your mouth off my fucking tits and put it somewhere else — or you’ll never shut me up.”

A slow, snarky smile spread across his lips and he nodded. Slithering down the length of her body, he lowered his mouth to her navel and she felt the tightening, the pulsing between her already slick thighs. Dotting her skin with soft, barely-there kisses, he stopped as he passed her hips and deftly nudged his shoulders beneath, pushing her up into the air, her lips exposed to his.

“Is this what you wanted,” he whispered, his voice rough.

Delilah twisted, her legs shaking as she groaned, “I thought you said no talking.”

His hot mouth on her soft, wet lips was the only answer. Sucking, nibbling, he slipped his tongue between the cleft. She writhed, helpless as he lifted her higher, savoring her, greedily sucking on the tiny nub that drove her insane.

His fingers held her legs apart, and she was unable to do anything but let him plunder her. Her shoulders twisted and back contorted, wanting him never to stop – but wanting his cock inside her even more. But he wouldn’t stop. That damned devil tongue and his hands, so strong they held her just where he wanted, as if he had all the time in the world to consume her.

“Oh, please, oh please,” she cried out as his tongue plunged further and further, the faint stubble on his chin a tickling contrast to the hot, slippery wetness within.

Grunting almost angrily in reply he shook his head, his mouth hot on her flesh, his tongue curling around her clitoris, teasing it with insistent strokes until she couldn’t do anything except fall back and submit to the pleasure. “Oh GOD,” she screamed at last when the mounting sparks built into something she could not stop and the orgasm seized her in a violent swirl of sensation.

“Sit up straight, please,” he said, his fingers cool and dry against the back of her neck. “I’m almost done, and I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

Delilah scooted up further against the seat back, pushing her breasts out as she moved. She could feel him breathing behind her, and she heard the catch in his breath when arched her back just enough to make sure he noticed her nipples beneath the thin jersey fabric of her t-shirt. She wore a bra, but a flimsy one – designed more to titillate than to support.

One last tug of his hand, and her neck stretched backward. He held her hair, twisting it into a coil at her crown. He leaned over, pressing the hair still with his thumb while the fingers of his other hand snipped beneath. She felt a feathery dusting of hair fall across her shoulders. He didn’t move for a moment, just stood there and she could feel the heat of his skin barely an inch from her back. His hand still kept her hair in place, and she had an urge to reach up and grab that hand, slip her fingers between his and pull herself to standing.

Then he sighed and released her hair, letting it fall down around her shoulders.

Disappointed, she sighed, too. What was she thinking? That he would swing her around, wrap her thighs around his waist and tear the t-shirt from her body, tossing it to the floor?

Yes. That’s exactly what she was thinking. And he knew it.

The faintly citrusy scent of his cologne drifted by as he stood behind Delilah. The smell, the light, teasing touch of his hands in her hair — she was growing damper by the minute as she debated her options. She could pretend the sexual tension between them was a figment of her imagination, leave with dignity and go home and replay the entire scene with a vibrator. That was option A.

Or … she could take a different approach.

She waited while he sighed one more time and took a step away from her chair, walking around to his desk with the prize; the long, brown and silky strands of her hair in his hand. He carefully placed them inside a plastic bag, smoothed out the bag to remove any air bubbles and then marked something on the plastic surface with a thick black Sharpie.

Then he raised his eyes to look at Delilah. Those impossibly blue eyes of his, the pupils large and black and bottomless. His face a perfectly chiseled square of white skin, light stubble and lips she wanted to nibble.

She stared back at him, and his eyes flickered. With a decisive moment, he picked up the plastic package and moved it to a shelf above the desk.

Delilah’s eyes locked on his and beneath those inkly black brows she saw the pupils begin to dilate and she licked her lips. That was all it took.

In one quick movement, he lunged across the desk and reached for her, at the same time she leapt toward him. He ripped away her t-shirt and his mouth dropped at the sight of her full breasts, barely contained in their lace.

“See something you like,” she murmured and jerked his shirt from his body, popping buttons in the process. His chest, a perfect, pale sculpture of lean, flat muscles, practically begged her to rake her nails down those pecs, those abs.

He tossed her atop the desk in response, yanking at her skirt, plowing through the filmy fabric of her panties, which flew in tiny scraps across the room.

“I’m here for the drug test,” Delilah mumbled to the man behind the glass partition, waving a sheaf of crumpled paperwork to indicate her mission.

The man raised his dark head, glaring at her with angry indigo eyes. His sharp, pale features were handsome in a cold way that instantly put Delilah on edge.

He reluctantly pulled back the glass that protected him from unnecessary human contact, and snatched the papers from her hand. Scanning them briefly he returned his glance to her, his eyes skimming her hopeful face without a trace of a smile. Sneering, he pointed to the door. “Over here, take a seat.”

Delilah pushed the door open and looked from side to side. She couldn’t see him or where she was supposed to sit.

“Over here, I said.” His voice crackled with impatience and Delilah sidled over to the left, peering into a small, dismal beige office. He sat behind a battered metal desk and pointed to an uncomfortable-looking chair on the other side.

Delilah lowered herself to the seat, afraid to sit down too quickly for fear she might make the wrong move. He didn’t look the type to tolerate mistakes – his bristling attitude made that abundantly clear. He was younger than his demeanor would suggest; maybe thirty if Delilah had been a betting woman.

“So, does this take very long?” She smiled as she asked the question, aiming for a cheerful, professional tone. After all, she was here only as a formality. She’d been offered a job, and the only remaining obstacle between her and a regular paycheck was this silly little test.

He did not return the expression, but merely raised an eyebrow. Reviewing the paperwork, his nostrils flared with distaste for the task ahead of him.

Or at least that’s what Delilah imagined. She wanted to clear things up; to say, “No; it’s okay. I don’t do drugs, this is just a test. For a job. I’m a good citizen, a good girl. Really.”

But his face didn’t invite chatter and she remained silent. Finally he put the forms down on his desk and sighing, he opened a drawer. Carefully he placed three objects on the surface between them. A long cardboard envelope. A shiny new pair of scissors, encased in a blue plastic sleeve. A long silver comb.

“What kind of a test is this?” Delilah eyed the scissors nervously. She hadn’t known what to expect, but a long, gleaming pair of shears certainly hadn’t been on her radar.

He raised an eyebrow and answered in a mocking tone, “It’s a hair test. I’ll cut a sample of your hair and send it to another lab. Any more questions?”

“No,” Delilah answered quickly. A hair test? He was going to cut her hair? She ran her fingers self-consciously through the strands that fell past her breasts, twisting a piece around her little finger as if worried he might yank it suddenly from her head.

Silently, he watched her nervous movement. If he felt a hint of compassion or empathy, he gave nothing away. Opening another drawer, he removed a pair of latex gloves. Sliding his fingers inside, he snapped the thin rubbery edge around his wrist until the gloves fit tightly over his large, knotty hands. Lifting the scissors, he stood and approached Delilah.

“Lean back,” he commanded.

She obliged, smoothing her skirt over her knees as she scooted backward. She could feel his eyes on her, watching and waiting with impatience . . . or maybe something else. A wicked impulse prompted her to slowly twist her hips, wiggling her bottom back and forth until her shoulders were flush with the stiff, fabric-covered seat back.

He said nothing, but his flashing eyes told Delilah he was interested. She returned his stare and licked her lips, restraining herself from an over-the-top gesture; merely letting the tip of her tongue slip across the gloss-slicked surface of her mouth.

“Is this how you want me?” Her eyes never left his as she asked, and the tightening of his jaw muscles was the only answer she needed.

He moved behind her chair. A thrill shot through her as he disappeared from her view. Logically, she knew he must be getting ready to cut her hair, but a darker urge made her thighs tremble as she waited for him to make the first move.

She could hear the dull rushing noise of the furnace in the silence of the room. He was right behind her chair, yet he wasn’t moving. The anticipation made her nipples harden and she cast her eyes down into her lap, willing herself not to get quite so turned on.

After all, she could be completely misreading the situation. He might genuinely be oblivious to her desire, might be intent on nothing more than the successful completion of another dull task in his daily routine.

Or he might want to rip off her panties and take her right across the desk.

It was the not knowing that drove Delilah a tiny bit crazy as she sat in the chair, waiting. Seconds, then minutes ticked by and she could hear the slightest noise of his breathing as he stood behind her. She could smell a faint musky scent of cologne and she was aware of her breath quickening as she tried to stay perfectly still.

She felt the comb tugging softly through her hair, and the metal teeth grazed her neck. Slowly and carefully he combed with one hand, while the other held the shank of her hair firmly between her shoulder blades. Of course, he didn’t speak; merely continued with this oddly gentle rhythm of metal against hair against skin that was almost hypnotic. Delilah closed her eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep on me.” His voice had lost some of its sharpness, and he sounded – if not amused – then unsurprised. Maybe he was used to lulling unsuspecting hair test takers to sleep. Maybe, if she wasn’t careful she’d wake up in Thailand, bald and missing a kidney.

She hoped not. She was fairly sure she could make it with only one kidney, but bald? Not with these hips.